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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30077001">Bitter as Coffee, Sweet as Honey</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vayar/pseuds/Vayar'>Vayar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Assassination Attempt(s), Backstory, Canon Backstory, Canon Compliant, Father Figures, Found Family, Gen, Halt Needs a Hug, How Do I Tag, Pre-Canon, Pritchard POV, Royalty, Sassy Halt O'Carrick, Teenage Halt O'Carrick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:07:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30077001</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vayar/pseuds/Vayar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Apprentices, Pritchard has found, were like stray cats. From the day you open your door to your first, you're doomed to take in every one that comes your way. </p><p> </p><p>Exiled from Araulen on falsified charges, Pritchard arrives in Dun Kilty in search of a respectable job and a place to grow old in peace. A cabin at the edge of the woods, a woodkeeper's job with an occasional band of bandits to send home—what better place for a retired ex-Ranger?</p><p>Except the dark and dangerous eyes of the Crown Prince of Clonmel never seem to leave him alone, and Pritchard grows determined to see beyond their shadows.</p><p> </p><p>Apprentices. What made him think it was a good idea?</p><p>------------------------------------------------</p><p>Major spoilers RA  bk8, minor for bk11 and Early Years. Possible canon discrepancies since I really owe these books a reread. Feel free to bash me on the head if I mess anything up.</p><p>Updates: 11/05/21:<br/>Ch4 - Perfect Liars: 2.3k/3k planned, rough draft.<br/>Ch5 - To See The Day: 3k/4k expected, outlined.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Halt O'Carrick &amp; Pritchard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Tᴏᴏ ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴄᴋ ᴀssᴜᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pritchard tugged his waterlogged cloak tighter around his arms, shivering in the draught, and jogged a few steps to catch up with his guide. Austere corridors of the Castle of Dun Kilty looked all the same to him. He would never find his way out if the guard managed to lose him, and he was clearly trying.</p><p>Had somebody back in Araluen told him a castle could be this draughty—and a royal castle at that, not just some border fortress of negligible importance—Pritchard would have laughed in their face. Hibernia, however, was quickly testing and one by one disproving his lifelong assumptions on how bad the weather could possibly be.</p><p>It had been three months since the trumped-up treason charge that saw Pritchard driven out of the Kingdom of Araluen. The moment the missives summoning him to trial reached his fiefdom, signed by the King but not in his handwriting, the Ranger had packed his bags, saddled his horse, and took the first barge across the sea he stumbled upon.</p><p>He had escaped with his life, true, but the reason why got lost somewhere on the way. Being honest with himself, Pritchard was still looking for a purpose beyond simply surviving. His duty and homeland were lost to him forever, his friends left behind without a word lest they incur similar treatment by association. Only the silver oakleaf pendant hanging on a chain around his neck tied him to the past. Pritchard forced his hand away from the charm and his mind into the present.</p><p>"Here," his guide said, ushering him into a room through a door that looked no different from the two hundred they had ignored previously.</p><p>Pritchard entered warily, ducking his head under the low doorway. The chamber was sparsely decorated, as every room in this castle he had seen so far. There were four desks, three of them unoccupied, a doored cabinet in the far corner and precious little besides. The only source of light was a candle on the central table by which the lone scribe sat, bent over his paperwork.</p><p>The scribe was a thin balding man in his fifties, distinctly resembling an insect with his round face and circular spectacles that he now pushed up his nose to regard Pritchard with obvious disinterest.</p><p>Without a word, Pritchard produced the crumpled sheet of paper that had brought him here. He handed it over to the scibe. Like most things in this cursed country, the bulletin was damp, despite Pritchard's best efforts to keep it intact.</p><p>The scribe took the bulletin from him and squinted at the blurred letters. "Applying for the woodkeeper?" he verified. The Ranger responded with a wordless nod.</p><p>The scribe put down his quill and straightened up in his chair, suddenly all business. Pritchard did the same, attempting to appear less haggard than he felt.</p><p>"You really want that job, lad?"</p><p>Pritchard let the 'lad' slide; at his age, it was basically a compliment. "Yes," he replied simply, and he meant it.</p><p>A purpose he might have lacked, but having spent three miserable months on the road, he had been forced to admit he was looking for it in entirely wrong places. What he needed was a respectable and preferably permanent employment—and, as his body reminded him with another wave of shivers, a permanent lodging.</p><p>An opportunity had presented itself promptly. Dun Kilty, the capital of Clonmel in southeastern Hybernia, was in desperate need of a woodkeeper. At least that's what the bulletin said: the offered pay below cast doubts on the desperation factor, and the job description did not suit a mere woodkeeper. It was, however, just the job for a Ranger.</p><p>"A foreigner?" the scribe observed. Resignedly, Pritchard confirmed. He'd hoped to keep his heritage to himself for longer than that. But the scribe waved his hand and smiled cordially. "Ah well, good enough," he said. "Consider yourself hired. Come, I'll show you around."</p><p>The scribe, who Pritchard soon learned was an amiable albeit garrulous man called Oisin, led him deeper into the castle, explaining details on the way.</p><p>Turned out, Pritchard was the first and only applicant for the position so far. He took the news with some surprise. Were he one of the bandits Dun Kilty had such trouble with, he would have rushed to claim the job and the cabin at the edge of the woods that came with it. It would be the perfect base for <em>not</em> hunting down his comrades, not to mention rented at the King's expense.</p><p>Alas, a bandit Pritchard was not. He was a Ranger, even in exile, and so the band's days of poaching and robbing innocent travelers were numbered. Especially since they did not seem like the smartest bunch.</p><p>Oisin led them down a different flight of stairs than Pritchard took on his way up, then into a wide corridor, which, for a change, showed budding interest in looking presentable. Lit candelabra protruded from the walls and a dark green carpet with yellow lining covered the plain granite floor. Some of the niches between the candelabra held busts or paintings of people Dun Kilty wasn't apparently very keen on remembering.</p><p>Oisin kept talking, but Pritchard's attention slipped from his monologue at the slightest distraction. Pritchard the King's Ranger would never have ignored such an amount of fresh gossip, but the current Pritchard was just a cold, homesick old man. Taking his chance when the scribe stopped for breath, he steered the conversation to the matter of accommodation.</p><p>"Ah yes, the cabin." Oisin smiled sheepishly and scratched the balding patch at the back of his head. "There's a cabin if you want it, but you don't want it, lad. The roof is leaking. But we can assign you nice chambers here in the castle."</p><p>Pritchard had half a mind to point out that the castle was probably leaking too, but he bit his tongue. It wouldn't do to offend the scribe, especially since Oisin appeared inclined to befriend him. Pritchard could use a friend these days.</p><p>"You’re probably right," he said instead, "but I enjoy my privacy. Could I see it nonetheless?"</p><p>Osin grumbled, but conceded to showing Pritchard the cabin at the end of their tour. The corridors meandered and crisscrossed much like his monologue: Pritchard was too tired to make sense of either.</p><p>There weren't many people busing around, but eventually they had to run into somebody of importance.</p><p>The man was young, in his twenties if not late teens, lightly built and black of hair. He wore an elegant doublet in shades of dark green and black, matching tight-fitting trousers and knee-high leather boots. Pritchard's eyes went first to the hunting knife at his side, and only then to the modest circlet sitting upon his furrowed brow.</p><p>By then, Oisin was already tugging him down. "Bow, bow down!" the scribe hissed, pushing Pritchard's neck down. "The prince!"</p><p>The Ranger smothered his protest, choosing instead to obey and observe from under a raised brow. Too late. The prince fixed his stormy gaze first at the scribe, briefly. Then he it shifted to the Ranger, where it stayed, unblinking.</p><p>Those were some dangerous eyes, Pritchard noted, with wary depth to them that belied their youth. They bore into him with the wrath of a thundercloud until he deepened his bow, breaking eye contact.</p><p>Oisin kept his firm hold on Pritchard's neck until the prince strode out of sight. Pritchard could sense the moment he left, the sudden absence of the stare that had not left him for a heartbeat.</p><p>"Which one was that?" he asked. There were two O'Carrick princes, he remembered, and then a younger princess of the name Caitlyn.</p><p>To his surprise, Oisin scratched his balding head again, pondering the question. "Prince Ferris, methinks." He squinted after the prince, as if he could see him still. "Or perhaps Crown Prince Halt?"</p><p>"You can't tell between your princes?" In Araluen, messing up a mere knight's name was a faux pas of the season. A prince’s? Unthinkable. Except, apparently, on this gods-forsaken island.</p><p>"Bloody hard, that," the scribe muttered, scratching at his head again. He was doing it so often Pritchard suspected the tic might be at fault for his balding. "Twins, you see. Bloody hard to tell apart." He cast an assessing glance at Pritchard. Pritchard did not know what he was being assessed for, but tried to appear trustworthy.</p><p>"Don't let him catch you staring, lad," Oisin said at last, "but the Crown Prince limps on his left leg. An accident three months ago, falling roof slates—something like that," he explained. "It's hard to spot, but I know no other way. They even dress the same!"</p><p>Pritchard nodded, but later shook his head in distaste at the scribe's back. Some way indeed. Still, he would have to keep an eye on this Prince Ferris. Or Crown Prince Halt.</p><p>He might have landed the job, but he clearly wasn't welcome.</p><hr/><p>Pritchard crouched on a branch of an old oak, trusting the cloak to blend him into the sparsening autumn foliage. The day was clear for once, wind chasing fluffy white clouds across the blue sky, but the Ranger—officially the Head Woodkeeper of Dun Kilty now—had eyes only for the band of thirty-two bandits camping in the clearing below.</p><p>The band was bigger than he'd initially expected, and organised a tad too well for regular small-scale banditry. Their weapons were rather on the expensive side, and chances were they knew how to use them.</p><p>They were, however, notably careless.</p><p>The leader of the band was the burly man squatting in front of the central bonfire, accepting reports and mugs of ale alternatively. The cart the bandits had pilfered earlier that day, the source of the ale, stood to the side with horses still in harness. The cart's owner had been set loose, on condition he surrendered his boots and overcoat first.</p><p>Pritchard had been lucky. The bandits, spoiled by weeks of impunity, didn't think twice at the sight of a lone cart loaded with ale. A scrawny old man alone in the driver's seat might have been an overkill, but Oisin had insisted on playing his part in the show, and Pritchard eventually relented. He'd had a hard time finding a volunteer anyway.</p><p>Everything was going according to the plan. For all their crafty meandering and obscuring their trails in the woods, the band infallibly returned to this same clearing the Ranger had found within his first day of searching.</p><p>The leader, having enjoyed his ale and envious looks of his comrades enough, called for a general celebration. The bandits jumped to the cart with a choral huzzah. Pritchard watched with some amusement as they climbed on each others' backs to get to the drink first. Even the youngsters (twelve or thirteen at most, he noted with dismay) partook in the drinking.</p><p>Careless indeed. Pritchard enjoyed knowing that it would spell out the band's demise soon.</p><p><em>Could it be sooner?</em> his old bones protested with a twinge of pain. Pritchard cursed under his breath and altered his position on the branch, mindful to move with a gust of wind that would obscure the movement. Not that the bandits were looking up at the trees. But even if one did, he would see a mottled shadow at best. Most likely, he would see nothing.</p><p>Pritchard's patience had to last for yet a few hours longer. The sedative in the ale was a slow-working one on purpose: it wouldn't do to have the bandits notice the side effect before all had drunk their share. The drug, obtained courtesy of Oisin, was potent—especially when mixed with alcohol—but harmless in the long term.</p><p>Pritchard had in fact become fast friends with the scribe: the man had an adventurous streak in him that his age and developing arthritis failed to suppress—and quite the malicious sense of humor, the Ranger thought with amusement, recalling their recent conversation.</p><p>"A soluble sedative?" Oisin repeated, abandoning his writing mid-sentence. "Ha! Why haven't we thought of that? Of course we have a stock of— of that weed the King uses." Oisin glanced around his empty office and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Since, you see, our fair queen has… issues with sleeplessness, so to speak."</p><p>"So is it the King or the Queen who uses it?" Pritchard asked, lifting his brow at the scribe.</p><p>Oisin grinned wryly. "I said what I said."</p><p>"You're a terrible gossip." The Ranger shook his head, chuckling. "Alright, please see if you can get me enough for thirty men. About twice the weight of the queen each, and it would be nice if it could keep them out of it for a few hours."</p><p>Oisin scribbled the request down on a piece of paper, probably for official processing. Now that he had located the bandits' base, Pritchard could ask for an entourage of knights to accompany him on a full-blown raid, but he saw no point in risking human life needlessly. Not before he tried a subtler method.</p><p>"Hm, Pritchard?" Oisin asked.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"How about we use something…more amusing?"</p><p>Pritchard tilted his head at him. There was a pun somewhere in there, knowing Oisin, but he hadn't caught it yet.</p><p>Oisin clarified, "Why a sedative?"</p><p>"What else do you suggest? I want them alive, if possible. Work ethic."</p><p>Oisin's expression told Pritchard what, exactly, the Hybernian thought of his work ethic. But then he cracked a wide grin. "Well, we also have a stock of laxatives."</p><p>Pritchard had burst out laughing then. It was the first time since leaving Araluen that he'd laughed like that, loud and hysterical and without a care in the world for who might hear. He laughed until his chest hurt and his voice had grown hoarse, and then a while longer.</p><p>The Ranger dismissed the memory, though a smile tugging at his lips wouldn't go. Yes, he could imagine that. Actually, he had problems not imagining it as he watched the bandits going about their party blissfully unaware of the fate they had narrowly avoided. If they had avoided it. Oisin had been suspiciously gleeful while helping Pritchard poison the ale.</p><p>The day dimmed into afternoon, afternoon fading to evening that brought about a blanket of clouds and an annoying drizzle. One of the more sober bandits—which still stood for considerably intoxicated—realised belatedly that the alcohol couldn't have been that strong, and it was a short way from there to concluding that something was wrong.</p><p>Pritchard sighed as the man broke into a careening run to the edge of the clearing. He nocked an arrow on the string. He had hoped for a clean job, but a man could never have all he hoped for.</p><p>The bow sang and the bandit fell without another sound, the arrow gone cleanly through his head.</p><p>Pritchard scanned the clearing for more conscious opponents. Finding none, he slung his bow over his shoulder and eased off the tree. His leather shoes made no sound upon landing, quiet and careful. Needlessly so, but better safe than sorry.</p><p>He set about trussing the bandits up. Some woke in the process, but alcohol and the drug had done their job: none were in any condition to put up a decent fight, and strikers made quick work of those who tried.</p><p>As the one who drank most, the leader was left for the last. Pritchard bound his wrists with a rope and added thumb-cuffs, just in case. Finished with that, he cast an appraising glance at the cart. Now comes the hard part, he thought with a sigh. He should hurry: the drizzle was turning the ground boggy and slippery.</p><p>In spite of his age, he soon found out he was strong enough to load the most dangerous-looking dozen bandits onto the cart before his muscles refused to cooperate any further. After a second thought, he decided to bring the younger boys as well.</p><p>The two old horses turned their heads after him as he hauled more dead weight onto the cart, knowing all too well whose job was to pull it. If horses could glare, those two certainly would. They took some coaxing to get on the way, and the path was so rough for the cart that it took Pritchard another hour to reach the dirt road running through the woods to the castle and the town that had grown around it.</p><p>He needn't have bothered. No sooner had he emerged from the forest than a mounted entourage cleared the curve of the road to the clinking of gear and weapons. Spotting her Ranger, Selkie rushed ahead with a happy neigh. Pritchard had told her to stay at the castle, but trust his horse to fuss.</p><p>The entourage was catching up at a leisurely pace. Pritchard counted them quickly, feeling his good mood disperse irrevocably. There were twelve knights in light armour, and at their head—a prince.</p><p>Pritchard had found the O'Carrick twins were actually quite easy to distinguish: Prince Ferris was the sunshine boy, and Crown Prince Halt hated Pritchard's guts. This, the Ranger concluded with a suppressed sigh, was definitely Halt.</p><p>The prince rode a massive cold-blooded warhorse, ink-black like his hair and clothes. The beast was so huge the boy probably needed a ladder to mount, but carried the lightest burden—Halt was the only of the entourage to arrive unarmoured. A sling with a longbow hung at his saddle's side instead, two dozen arrows sticking from a quiver over his shoulder.</p><p>Pritchard bowed deeply, gesturing at the cart. "Your Highness, I captured you some bandits."</p><p>"That I can see," replied the prince dryly, gesturing for his escort to inspect the cart. He himself remained at a distance, turning his horse crosswise to the road.</p><p>"There are children, Your Highness!" one of the knights exclaimed.</p><p>"Yes," the Ranger admitted. "I hope they didn't drink too much. Sedatives mix poorly with alcohol."</p><p>Halt's eyes narrowed to slits, fixed on Pritchard. If glares could kill, Pritchard would be dead ten times over. "Fine," the prince said after a moment. "Set the children loose. Hang the rest."</p><p>"Hang them?!" Pritchard exclaimed, shocked. Sure, the bandits had to be punished, but this was way too harsh!</p><p>"Yes, hang them. Are you hard of hearing?" The prince tsked condescendingly and turned his giant horse to leave. But then he reined it in.</p><p>Pritchard grit his teeth. This wouldn't be good, he could tell.</p><p>"How many bandits you say there were, Woodkeeper?"</p><p>"Thirty-two total in the camp, these here included," the Ranger replied. "One I had to kill."</p><p>"And would you have spared them if you could?"</p><p>"Probably? Put them in the dungeon for a season, maybe have them work the fields?"</p><p>"The fields belonging to the families of the men they killed last month, perhaps?"</p><p>The knights grumbled their assent, and Pritchard realised he should relent lest he be taken for a bandit sympathiser. He had grown too used to his Ranger status in Araluen. "Of course not, Your Highness. Forgive this old man his soft heart."</p><p>"Glad we agree. Hanging it is, then. And if there are fewer than thirty-two…" Halt cast a final pointed glare in Pritchard's direction. "Then feel free to hang our good woodkeeper instead."</p><p>On cue, half of the escort turned their mounts around and followed, the rest dismounting to set about their grim task. Selkie nudged him in the shoulder in search of some attention, but Pritchard ignored her, staring numbly after the prince.</p><p>The closest knight winked at him. "Paranoiac," he mouthed, nodding at Halt's back. "I'm sure there are thirty-two, but then, I can't count very well. Can you, boys?!"</p><p>The knights as one admitted to their poor mathematical skills. One even managed to tally up thirty-two bodies on the cart alone.</p><p>Pritchard nodded his gratitude, still too shaken to speak. It had occurred to him suddenly just how little power he held in Clonmel, just how easy it would be for the Crown Prince to order his death or exile if he so wished.</p><p>Almost as easy as it had been for Baron Morgarath and his ruling council.</p><p>Enough. Pritchard took a deep breath, forcing his nerves to calm. He would be inclined to agree with the knights on the prince’s paranoia, except he was a King's Ranger—and Rangers, even ex-Rangers in exile, didn't blindly accept the easiest answer just because it conveniently came their way.</p><p>No, this animosity was something more, something personal, and Pritchard <em>would</em> get to the bottom of it. Crown Prince or no, he was getting his answers.</p><hr/><p>Pritchard walked out of the tavern into the cold Hybernian night, laced his fingers behind his back and stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders felt stiff a lot recently, and a night out talking and drinking over a low table only made the aches worse. He was getting old.</p><p>Yet it felt good to make acquaintances, even if his companions from the castle guard were now too intoxicated to recognise him anymore, and Oisin had left even earlier, swaying on his feet after a single mug of ale. They were both getting old, Pritchard concluded, fanning the letter the scribe had dropped under the table and forgotten to pick up. Old and drunk mixed poorly.</p><p>Pritchard had disliked drinking from a young age: sometimes it was unavoidable if you wanted to blend in, but handicapping his reflexes wasn't worth the questionable fun. He'd only ordered enough ale not to offend the barkeeper, and now his abstinence was paying off. The sudden sight of somebody sneaking through the perpendicular alley snagged his attention momentarily, though he didn't let it show.</p><p>The sneaking man turned his head around, scanning his surroundings with obvious anxiety. He crossed the open space as fast as he could without actually running. It still gave Pritchard plenty of time to recognise the black ponytail the man wore bound with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, his dark clothing and his slight build.</p><p>Then there was the limp.</p><p>The Ranger released the stretch, threw the hood of his cloak on and made to follow. Despite what the local gossip-mongers firmly believed, Crown Prince Halt didn't always limp. From Pritchard's observation, he was either faking or masking it expertly. Regardless, Pritchard had never seen it so pronounced before.</p><p>This, taken together with the late hour and inexplicable circumstances of the prince’s presence so far from the castle proper, made it a matter worth investigating.</p><p>Pritchard slipped through the shadows along the way, confident in the camouflage of his cloak. The prince looked back over his shoulder every now and then, prudently at irregular intervals, but his back tensed each time he was about to turn, giving any skilled pursuer time aplenty to disappear.</p><p>They eventually ended up at the inner castle gates, where the prince bullied one of the guards into letting him inside.</p><p>His limp hadn't abated. If anything, it had grown worse. Pritchard frowned under the hood. Was the boy injured?</p><p>He considered. Either way, the Crown Prince was safe inside the castle walls, and whatever he was up to sneaking around at night didn't concern Pritchard personally—nor was it his responsibility.</p><p>But a Ranger's instincts weren't so easily silenced. Something was amiss in Dun Kilty, and it seemed to revolve around its grim-faced Crown Prince. Pritchard refused to reciprocate the resentment the boy clearly felt for him, but he wasn't oblivious to it.</p><p>Even though Halt hadn't hoarded the credit for capturing the bandits as Pritchard had feared—to the contrary, he had praised him in front of the King—during the celebratory feast the prince’s mistrust hung between them like a bad smell. It only got worse from there; when the Ranger got fed up of being stared daggers at and decided to have the long overdue talk with the prince, Halt not only managed to lose him in the crowded celebration hall, but started avoiding Pritchard altogether unless he was backed up by an armed escort.</p><p>And now the notorious paranoiac was sneaking out at night alone. He definitely wouldn't appreciate Pritchard's concern—or, calling the spade a spade, his snooping. This might even be a trap.</p><p>Curiosity won over. Pritchard retreated a block down, removed the hood and approached the gate from a parallel street. He had become something of a household name since his smooth disposal of the bandits, so the guards let him through after a short chat.</p><p>Instinct guided him to the training grounds, then up a flight of stairs to the battlements where he finally spotted the prince again. Halt broke into a run, disappearing down the stairs at the other side.</p><p>This was a predicament. The hundred meters long walkway ahead was completely exposed, and contrary to what people believed, rangers weren't black magicians. It was one thing to follow unseen and unexpected through the narrow alleys of the town, another thing entirely to disappear in plain sight.</p><p>He had lost the element of surprise, if he'd had it to begin with. Pritchard pondered his alternatives—back down, or perhaps cross the training grounds in the shadow of the wall? No, that would take too long.</p><p>He simply walked ahead. The Head Woodkeeper had chambers in the castle, after all. He could take a stroll along the old battlements whenever he pleased.</p><p>Under the hood of his cloak, Pritchard was all but contemplative. If the Crown Prince wanted to stage an attack or embroil him in anything, this was the time and place.</p><p>The walkway was one of the oldest parts of the fortifications, its granite floor cracked and nicked by the flow of time. The training grounds to his left used to be the outer yard of the castle—back when the battlements at his right hand overlooked the wilderness of primaeval Hybernia, not a prosperous town.</p><p>The castle expanded as its importance grew, until, eventually, a much higher wall had been erected around it. In the evening its shadow would stretch over its elder sister and the training grounds, but now the moon hung high in the sky and the world was bathed in her glow.</p><p>Pritchard divided his attention between the top of the new walls, the training grounds and the castle to his left, and the stairs getting closer with each ostensibly relaxed stride. He was so focused on his surroundings that he missed the trap entirely. He reached the end of the walkway without incident, but as soon as he set foot on the first step down, it gave way under his weight.</p><p>A chunk of the stair broke off with a sharp crack and tumbled down, the Ranger with it. By the time he regained balance at the bottom, it was too late.</p><p>A hand grabbed him by the collar, pulled him up and hurled him against the wall. In a flash, a knife found its way under Pritchard's chin. It pricked the skin, but stopped there.</p><p>The Ranger gulped down and, ever so slowly, looked up from the blade, straight into the dark and dangerous eyes of Halt, the Crown Prince of Clonmel.</p><p>He had walked right into that one, hadn't he.</p><p>Halt could have had Pritchard there and then. But the boy hesitated, and the Ranger didn't.</p><p>Pritchard jabbed his elbow into the prince’s gut, in the same instant hooking his foot around his ankle and sweeping it to the side. Halt had positioned himself sideways to his opponent—a good idea unless you fancied a knee-kick between the legs, but his stance was slightly disbalanced, and Pritchard had muscle mass and decades of experience over him.</p><p>In a blink their roles reversed. Pritchard caught the prince before he fell, wrestled the knife out of his grip and backed him into the wall with his left arm. His right hand was already holding his saxe knife to Halt's neck.</p><p>Now was the perfect time for a bunch of guards to hop out and charge him with an assassination attempt. But there was no cunning left in Halt's eyes, none of his usual viciousness, and most certainly no victory.</p><p>There was nothing but dull void in them as he said, evenly, "I'll outpay him. Two to one, tonight, no counter contract. Just let me go."</p><p>The fight had left the prince’s body, the spark gone from his eyes as if Pritchard had driven the saxe knife home. No, he held it steady, but looking into those empty eyes, Pritchard couldn't shake off the feeling that he had broken something after all. Something precious. Something that should never be broken in anyone.</p><p>Shaken, he lowered the knife. "What?"</p><p>"I can pay you more," Halt repeated flatly. "Or are you doing this for personal satisfaction?"</p><p>Pritchard frowned. "I think it's high time we explained this, Your Highness. I have no idea what you're talking about."</p><p>"Sure. Pass Ferris my regards, will you?"</p><p>Pritchard sighed and withdrew the knife.</p><p>Halt's didn't move an inch. He breathed out, closed his eyes, and waited in silence. It stretched out. Ten seconds. Thirty. A minute.</p><p>Finally, the prince cracked one eye open.<br/>"You're—<em>really—</em>? You're not going to kill me?"</p><p>Pritchard lost it. "No, of course I'm not going to kill you! Nobody is getting killed!"</p><p>He might have said that a bit early. Halt's eyes widened.</p><p>It was a heartbeat, a moment of perfect clarity in which the Ranger felt the world shift with the sharpness of a falling blade, all his senses screaming alarm. He plunged into motion.</p><p>Pritchard leaped back, pulling the Halt down with him. Too late—the boy cried out as the bolt sliced through the clothes on his back. Pritchard rolled over, shielding him with his body.</p><p>As soon as he was on top, he threw the saxe knife at the attacker. More or less at the attacker. It wasn't his best throw. It was probably among his worst, offhand and sideways. But it wasn't meant to hit.</p><p><em>There.</em> The assassin, having seen the flash of a blade, instinctively stepped aside, revealing his position.</p><p>And Rangers always carried two knives.</p><p>The assassin staggered. The crossbow fell from his dying hands, hit and fired at the sky. The man and the bolt he didn't manage to shoot struck the ground simultaneously, two dangerous tools that would deal no more harm.</p><p>Pritchard exhaled with a shudder. Breath was short in his chest, his heartbeat too fast, too loud in his head. He was really too old for this.</p><p>"Good throw," the prince said in his flat monotone. "Thank you and all, but could you please get off of me now?"</p><p>They picked themselves up and after ascertaining there were no more enemies in the line for their heads, Halt reluctantly allowed Pritchard to look at his wound. It was shallow, but inconveniently located over his left shoulder blade.</p><p>"Tell me one thing, Woodkeeper," Halt asked as Pritchard set about cleaning the cut and applying antiseptic. "Were the bandits yours?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You like that word, don't you," Halt deadpanned.</p><p>"And you like casting aspersions."</p><p>The prince scowled at him over his shoulder. "I would have been suspicious of anyone hired by that new scribe, and given how conveniently you incapacitated the bandits… Create a problem, offer a solution. Typical."</p><p>"Wait. Oisin is new?"</p><p>"He is. A <em>brave</em> man," Halt's suddenly venomous tone belied the compliment in his words. "To apply with such eagerness, disregarding the curse dropping our scribes one by one recently." The prince counted off on his fingers: "One run over by a horse. Another passed from old age, then we had two victims of food poisoning. All in the span of a month."</p><p>Pritchard turned his head towards where the assassin had fallen with his throwing knife in his forehead. A terrible premonition nagged at him. It couldn't be.</p><p>"Sorry to disappoint, Your Highness, but I'm just a homeless old man who took the first job that came his way."</p><p>"This old man," Halt drawled, "is impressively efficient at his job. A veritable miracle in his advanced age."</p><p>"You know," Pritchard grinned. It was forced, but better than none. "You could always pay me more."</p><p>"True. We will."</p><p>The Ranger tied off the bandage and helped the prince back into his coat, then rose up. "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Your Highness."</p><p>Halt nodded and stood up as well. They went to inspect the assassin's body together, collecting their weapons along the way.</p><p>This side of the training grounds was littered with abandoned gear and weapon racks, providing cover but no clear shooting position, which must have been what forced the assassin out into the open. He had a good chance to creep upon them while they argued.</p><p>Pritchard's gut had been right. It was Oisin.</p><p>"The scribe curse strikes again," Halt observed. His face sported its usual scowl, but his hands shook slightly. How much of it was the aftermath of his close call and how much the sight of the corpse, Pritchard couldn't tell.</p><p>All he knew was that he himself had been a fool. The worst kind of a fool, who trusted with not only his actions, but his heart as well.</p><p>"I thought him too old," Halt said.</p><p>"You're too young to think," Pritchard replied absentmindedly. "Looks like old men being efficient at their jobs isn't so unusual after all."</p><p>"Except he failed."</p><p>Pritchard sighed. What were they doing anyway, having a contest in gallows humour over a corpse of his friend?</p><p>If Oisin had even been his friend.</p><p>Halt knelt by the body and patted it over, searching for only he knew what. He found a pouch and shook it between his index finger and thumb. Despite the fur it had been lined with, the coins inside clinked audibly. Halt threw it to Pritchard. "How about a bonus?"</p><p>Money recovered from thieves and outlaws ought to be returned to the kingdom's coffers or the people it had been stolen from. Except this wasn't Araluen. This was Clonmel, and its Crown Prince was gazing at him intently—albeit with a smidge of uncertainty. Pritchard couldn't tell if he was being assessed or insulted. "I appreciate the sentiment," he said, "but we both know this belongs to the King."</p><p>The prince shook his head. "I'm not judging you. I'm trying to hire you."</p><p>"What for?"</p><p>As if on cue, they both shifted their eyes to Oisin. Obviously, Pritchard thought. That was a stupid question.</p><p>Speaking of stupid. Pritchard pulled out Oisin's letter, the letter his friend had 'accidentally' dropped at the inn. Pritchard intended to bring it back to him the next morning, but if not for his curiosity, by the morning Halt could have been dead and Pritchard investigated for his murder.</p><p>"What is this?" Halt enquired.</p><p>Pritchard handed him the official-looking envelope. "The contract on your head, if I were to guess."</p><p>Halt inspected it briefly, though there wasn't enough light to read by. "First time being framed?"</p><p>"Actually, yes," the Ranger admitted. "So nice to have new experiences at my age. Fancy they could be good experiences."</p><p>"Well, welcome to Dun Kilty."</p><p>"Thanks. I hate it."</p><p>"Likewise."</p><p>Halt seemed to have shifted back to his normal grumpy attitude. If not for the tension with which he held himself, the deliberacy to his nonchalant stance, Pritchard would have bought it. As it was, he suspected the prince was frightened, even if he masked it well.</p><p>Halt glanced at the pouch Pritchard held, and ventured, "I will tell you if—when he hires another. You dispatch the assassin before he dispatches me, end of the deal." The prince tried to sound composed and business-like, with moderate success.</p><p>Pritchard inspected the pouch, trying to think of a compromise that would spare both his honour and conscience. This wasn't the first time somebody tried to kill Halt, that much was clear. The boy was what, sixteen, seventeen?</p><p>But Pritchard was a Ranger, not a hitman for hire. He still wore the silver oakleaf and there were lines he would not cross.</p><p>"Please," Halt said quietly. The fear encroaching on his voice suddenly made Pritchard much less certain of his resolutions. "Please. You know I can pay. Do you want me to apologise? To beg?"</p><p>"For starters, I could use information. Who is trying to kill you and why? And what on earth happened to the stairs?"</p><p>"Ferris, power, and Ferris again—he knows I practice archery from there."</p><p>"Prince Ferris? Your twin?" That Ferris, the happy boy who seemed five years younger than his twin from facial expression alone—hiring murderers to assume the throne? "Hey, that he has a motive doesn't mean he's guilty."</p><p>"I know what I saw. He— You know, never mind. He used an intermediary to pay this one here." Halt nodded at the assassin. "So no, if you want proof, I have none. Forget I asked. I'll arrange for your rise in the morning."</p><p>"What about Oisin?"</p><p>"Leave him. If the guard cannot be bothered to patrol once in half an hour, then at least let me see them squirm trying to explain this in the morning."</p><p>Why, of course Crown Prince Halt would say something like that. No wonder the guard laughed at him behind their back.</p><p>No wonder nobody believed him.</p><p>No wonder nobody would trust the mean, paranoid twin over the fair, friendly one. Just as between the loyal, charismatic Baron Morgarath and an old, stubborn Ranger no one had believed the latter.</p><p>And ultimately, what Halt asked for was protection, some semblance of it, not a bloody revenge.</p><p>"Wait," Pritchard called after him. He had an idea. A preposterous idea, but an idea nevertheless.</p><p>Perhaps it was not the sort of a decision to be made on the spot. But for Pritchard, it had been made once and forever nine years ago, in a snow-covered clearing in the Culway Fief. Aiming his arrow at the half-starved poacher and unable to move a muscle, ensnared by the void in his eyes.</p><p>This choice Pritchard made on the day he first met Crowley Meratyn, the red-haired scourge that would four years later become his apprentice. The day he'd understood at last what being a King's Ranger meant.</p><p>It meant acting when everyone else watched. It meant standing up for what you believed was right even if it was not the objective right. It meant going against the law you were supposed to uphold if you had to.</p><p>It meant giving that starving boy provisions and money rather than taking him to the baron to be flogged or worse. Crowley had never had to poach again, Pritchard had made sure of that.</p><p>He had known his heart long before then, but in that clearing, Pritchard found at last the courage he needed to trust it. It had almost gotten him killed too many a time, this defiant heart of his. It had gotten him named traitor and exiled. And here he was, trusting it again.</p><p>Halt was nothing like Crowley. He was not a starving kid laying traps in the forest to feed himself and his sickly mother. Halt was a damned Crown Prince, heir to the mightiest kingdom of Hybernia. But his eyes—the fear lurking behind his eyes was the same.</p><p>Evident, but contained. Resigned. The tamed fear of a person who had lived with it for too long, who had mastered it, who had <em>accepted</em> it.</p><p>"Wait," Pritchard repeated, a whisper on the wind. "I can't always protect you. But I could teach you how to protect yourself."</p><p>Halt turned, instinctively stopping where the shadows were thickest, where Pritchard couldn't read his face. He didn't need to.</p><p>He plowed on. "Knife fighting. Knife throwing, hand-to-hand combat. Unseen movement. They say you're good with a bow, but you could be better."</p><p>"And how do you know that?"</p><p>"Because one can always be better with a bow, boy."</p><p>Halt hesitated. "What will you gain from this?"</p><p>"Clear conscience?"</p><p>It was the truth, but it was also the wrong thing to say, which Pritchard realised the moment the words left his mouth. Halt didn't want—didn't need anyone's pity.</p><p>Pritchard had half a mind to let him go. But it was the half that never won anymore.</p><p>"Or maybe I'm just a lonely bastard!"</p><p>Halt stumbled to a stop. Pritchard's shout split the quell of the night, bouncing off the castle walls. "Me too!" some guard called back. Echoes repeated his reply as if they found it funny.</p><p>Halt gaped, then hid his face in his palms. "You're a strange man, Woodkeeper," he said through his fingers.</p><p>"Ranger," Pritchard corrected him machinally. As if he hadn't just pulled off the most un-Ranger-like stunt in his career.</p><p>But then, Halt lowered his hands and smiled. It was hardly a proper smile, just an upward twitch of his mouth, but the first genuinely happy one Pritchard had seen on his face. "You're a strange man, Ranger," he repeated.</p><p>And damn him if Pritchard didn't smile back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This got longer than planned, but I regret nothing. Comments much appreciated! </p><p>A note on the timeline:</p><p>In The Lost Stories: The Hybernian, Crowley reminisces that Pritchard had been exited three years prior, and that's when Crowley first meets Halt. It would already make Halt's apprenticeship notably short, but in Early Years: The Tournament at Gorlan, Halt thinks of Pritchard as if they hadn't seen each other for years. Unless my sleep-deprived brain got everything wrong, this implies Halt's apprenticeship could have lasted about a year at most, and (as per The Hybernian) ended with Halt having to flee Dun Kilty. </p><p>That's the version I stick to here anyways, though obviously I'm taking some liberties with the canon on Ferris's assassination attempts. Ah well.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Wʜᴀᴛ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pritchard has taken in another apprentice. He's even managed to convince himself it wouldn't be so bad.</p><p>But then Crown Prince Halt O'Carrick actually shows up at his doorstep.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Short update, this is not the final chapter after all. Edit: more, not even the penultimate. Currently hoping to finish in four. </p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pritchard leaned against a tree at the edge of the woods—his woods now—and tried to think positive. It should have been easy; by Hybernian standards the day was beautiful, though cold, and the fief was at peace.</p><p>With the exception of a thin layer of yellowing foliage, nothing obscured his view of acres of fallows and fields that rolled up to the walls of Dun Kilty looming tall and imposing in the distance. To his left, the woodkeeper's cottage stood like a guardpost between the fields and the woods, and a road emerged from between the trees far to the right. </p><p>An idyllic rural landscape, almost undisturbed. Almost.</p><p>Pritchard had the disturbance well within sight, but his mind, sensing no danger, floated free.</p><p>The humid, earthly scent of loam was bringing him back to brighter times, to memories of waning autumn days and nights spent by the hearth, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. Sometimes it felt so long ago, so far away. But other times, like today, he could almost taste the rich, deep-toned bouquet of his favourite coffee blend and hear Crowley's eager voice on the wind as he raved about something ordinary as if it were the greatest wonder of the world.</p><p>He had always known he would lose it one day. But not so harshly, not so completely and irrevocably. It hurt, when you couldn't protect what was yours. </p><p>Kind of like Pritchard couldn't protect his poor shooting range from the abuse the Crown Prince of Clonmel had been subjecting it to for the better part of the past hour.</p><p><em> Thack, </em>an arrow buried itself to the fletching in the straw target. Halt smoothly reached for another and nocked it on the string.</p><p>He was shooting at a point-blank range, working on his strength and technique rather than accuracy. This had been hard to explain to Crowley, who had always wanted to practice everything at once, preferably from horseback and standing on his hands on the saddle.</p><p>Pritchard shook the memory off, annoyed with himself and his maudlin mood. No, there was nothing wrong with the exercise itself. Halt, however, was performing it with a longbow of considerable power, and Pritchard's makeshift straw targets were giving in to the hail of arrows landing right next to one another.</p><p>There was no denying that the boy was practised. <em> Thack</em>, another arrow agreed. And dedicated, if somewhat foolhardy.</p><p>Come on, Pritchard thought. Halt was young, but even a young body had to have some limits.</p><p>Then Halt's bow arm spasmed and buckled under the pressure of the draw. His stance crumpled just a split second after he let go of the string. He dropped the bow, grasping at his shoulder.</p><p>"Who would have expected that," Pritchard muttered under his breath. Concealed by stillness and the camouflage of his cloak, the Ranger remained unnoticed by his prospective apprentice, though close enough to catch the impressively dirty word Halt spit out through the pain.</p><p>The prince breathed through clenched teeth for a few seconds more, then shook off the quiver and started working out the cramp in his shoulder as though he could overwork it into submission.</p><p>Pritchard had explicitly told him to come no sooner than the wound on his back was healed. <em> Fully </em> healed. Halt, however, had a distinctly divergent opinion on what was healed enough for training, and was fuming angry when Pritchard had turned him down earlier that day.</p><p>The Ranger had fled from under his accusing glare under the guise of a routine patrol, but when he and Selkie doubled back to the cabin fifteen minutes later, Halt had been already well on the way to tearing his wound open. Pritchard was legitimately surprised it took so long. </p><p>He was also surprised that the prematurely released arrow had hit—though it had hit not exactly what it'd been aimed at.</p><p>At that moment Halt noticed it too. His face shifted into the sourest of his scowls, brows knitting together, lips pursing into a thin line. Pritchard had been on the receiving end of that scowl often enough that he didn't envy the arrow. </p><p>It, however, made nothing of the prince’s pouting and continued to stick proudly from the wood of the target stand, the tip protruding at the other side. It wasn't worth trying to get it out: the thin unlacquered beam would probably have to be replaced, and the arrow, save the fletching, was beyond rescue.</p><p>Having had his petty satisfaction, Pritchard retraced his steps deeper into the woods, then back into the cabin. He doffed his gear by the door, hung his coat on the peg and busied himself with lightning a fire in the hearth. Which, in turn, lit a fire under his soon-to-be apprentice, whose attempts to pull the stuck arrow out grew more frantic and desperate as he realised Pritchard was back home and probably watching through one of the windows.</p><p>He was. </p><p>Halt set one leg on the wood, tugging, pulling and wrenching at the stuck arrow. It was such a good arrow, doubtless made by the best craftsmen in the castle who wouldn't forget the useful detail that was the barb on the broadhead. The only way to remove such an arrow was to break the shaft. </p><p>Which Halt soon did, unintentionally, falling on his backside with a martyred sigh and half a shaft in his hand.</p><p>Chuckling, Pritchard returned to the hearth and set the kettle over the fire. He needed a coffee. He would need a lot of coffee in the coming days, it seemed.</p>
<hr/><p>Halt took his mishap to heart and did not come back until a week later.</p><p>Pritchard appreciated having the time to finish repairing the cottage. The roof had indeed been leaking, the chimney clogged and the windows broken, their frames loose. Luckily the money from his woodkeeper's pay rise and the bonus Halt had sent him after all sufficed for the necessary repairs and even purchasing some convenience equipment. A stock of coffee and a grinder had of course been included among the necessities.</p><p>Coffee was sadly the only Ranger necessity easy to come by in Dun Kilty. Pritchard had to remind himself Halt wasn't technically becoming a Ranger's apprentice, even if he expressed interest in learning everything Pritchard had to offer. </p><p>Still, his failure to obtain a mottled cloak itched, as well as the separate knife scabbards. He had found a hunting knife of similar make to the saxe, but as for the shorter throwing knife, nothing met his meticulous standards. He would have to give Halt his own spare. At least he didn't need to worry about the bow.</p><p>The dreaded day finally came, dawning bleak and dreary. Pritchard had confirmed his guest's identity through the window when Selkie whinnied her warning a few minutes before, so when a knock sounded at the door, he didn't bother rising to answer. "Come in," he called. </p><p>There was a pause, after which Halt let himself into the cabin, closing the door behind him. He hung back in the entrance, taking in the humble interior from under a raised eyebrow.</p><p>Pritchard rolled his eyes. "We peasants live like that, yes."</p><p>"I've been here before. This place was derelict." </p><p>"That it was. But most broken things can be fixed—if one puts his heart into it."</p><p>Halt nodded with uncertainty, then moved from looming by the door to looming over Pritchard, who nursed his coffee on the chair by the fire. Another chair, mismatched but equally wobbly, stood empty on the other side of the low unpolished table. Besides the chairs and the table, the living area had a small kitchen compartment in the far corner, despondently underequipped, and a homemade rack for Pritchard's gear—the only bedroom was too cramped to hold it.</p><p>Halt studied it with feigned interest for lack of alternatives. Unfortunately for him, the Ranger wasn't going anywhere—or saying anything more, for that matter—until he'd had his coffee.</p><p>Finally it clicked. Halt walked over to the empty chair and threw himself into it. He leaned against the backseat and lifted his booted feet, clearly aiming to set them on the table.</p><p>Pritchard fixed him in a glare.</p><p>Halt stopped mid-motion. Then, reluctantly, he lowered his feet to the floor and set his palms on his knees like a good student from a castle ward in for an upbraiding. </p><p>The Ranger hid his smile in his mug. Maybe it wasn't too late to teach this boy some manners.</p><p>The prince was wearing simple black and deep green clothes and knee-high leather boots, dirty from the road. His long hair was bound back with a leather strap at the nape on his neck, his face clean-shaven. He almost looked his age without the royal circlet and the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders.</p><p>Eventually, Halt broke the silence. "Will you teach me today, or am I wasting my time?" he asked gruffly.</p><p>"I will."</p><p>Halt waited. He lifted one eyebrow at Pritchard, who answered with a mute look of kind. Halt shrugged and returned to studying the room. </p><p>Pritchard took mercy on him. "I will teach you. But to understand the craft, first you need a degree of understanding of what it was developed for, and what purpose it serves. The same way as you cannot understand a tool separately from its purpose." </p><p>"I know what purpose you serve, Ranger. You spy for the King of Araluen." He hesitated. "Or you used to."</p><p>The reminder hurt. "I'm not currently in service, as you have observed. And even if I was, Rangers aren't exactly spies, even though we sometimes operate in secret.</p><p>"We spy, as you put it, but we are advisors, not servants. We act as leaders and judges when necessary. We watch over the law and order, even if we watch from the shadows." He took a sip of his coffee. "As such, what do you believe is the most important quality of a Ranger?" </p><p>"Spycraft."</p><p>Pritchard set the mug down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've fixated on this, haven't you?"</p><p>The look of scepticism on Halt's face didn't encourage further questions, rhetorical or not. Pritchard allowed a minute of silence in memory of lost opportunities, then went on with the lecture. "You're right that there are parallels between our craft and that of a spy. We keep our eyes and ears open, we listen and see but remain unseen. We report back. But unlike a spy, a Ranger is expected, more, <em> required </em> to take action if his fief or its people are in danger. And our skills reflect that."</p><p>Pritchard stood up and deposited his empty coffee mug in the sink. Halt jumped to his feet immediately as Pritchard began to rise, and was shifting on his feet with awkward impatience.</p><p>"Come. You can leave the bow," Pritchard told him, amused but also pleased at his eagerness, though he hid it well. "You won't need it." </p><p>Halt regarded him with suspicion, but complied. Pritchard threw on his cloak and led them to the lean-to where he picked up a bare tree branch, selected and roughly prepared a few days before. The ranger handed it to his apprentice. "You can carry this instead." </p><p>Halt had a puzzled expression, but withheld himself from asking. Smart boy. Pritchard headed towards the fields, resuming his monologue. "As I was explaining, you must understand that the skills I'm about to teach you come with responsibility. The Ranger Corps are an invaluable asset to the kingdom, but also a double-edged blade that could cause great harm if corrupted."</p><p>"Why have you left?" </p><p>"Because the corruption has started, and I wanted no part in it. Neither did they want me meddling." </p><p>They approached the cluster of archery targets, positioned at an uneven line in the tall yellowing grass. Halt must have realised where this was going, for he lagged behind. But Pritchard was not letting him get out of this.</p><p>"There are only about fifty of us in service in Araluen at the best of times," he continued. "Partially because of the rigorous training programme, but mainly," he made a pause, "because we need tight control over who we teach and enroll. We are the watchers, but we only have each other to watch us." </p><p>"Who watches the watchers." </p><p>"Exactly. That's why early selection is so important. Not every boy, even if he shows considerable talent in tracking or archery, can be selected for Ranger apprenticeship."</p><p>They rounded the line of the targets, stopping in front of the one Halt had picked for his victim a week earlier. The winds had blown a hole in the straw at the centre where his arrowheads had hacked it into fine pieces.</p><p>"The inner qualities of character are decisive. Skills come with practice, but a Ranger, or, more precisely, a candidate for an apprentice Ranger, must first and foremost exhibit accountability." </p><p>"Accountability," Halt repeated blankly. This was not what he expected.</p><p>"Did I stutter?" </p><p>Halt, to Pritchard's eternal amusement, blushed furiously. He was still stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the hole and the broken shaft stuck in the horizontal beam of the stand.</p><p>The ranger couldn't resist tormenting him a bit more. "Accountability, and the ability to learn from his mistakes. Do you know what your mistake was in this case?" </p><p>Halt sighed softly, then regarded the broken shaft from under a furrowed brow. "Shooting the stand," he said. </p><p>"Overworking yourself until you started making mistakes! While injured no less." </p><p>That made the boy blanch. "You saw?"</p><p>Did he make that show of defiance not expecting an audience? "Obviously."</p><p>"But—how? I was watching out for you." </p><p>Pritchard shrugged. "Spycraft." </p><p>There was a pause. Halt looked first at Pritchard, then at the stand. A long moment passed in silence. Then Halt muttered, as if to himself, "I have much to learn."</p><p>"Indeed." Pritchard nodded at the replacement beam in his hands. "But let's start with accountability." </p>
<hr/><p>In spite of his initial misgivings, Pritchard found himself enjoying the company of the Crown Prince. Not that he was the most cheerful companion. Far from it. But he was a diligent student, and a challenge Pritchard hadn't realised he needed in his life until he found it. </p><p>His worries about comparing him to Crowley—good-natured, innocent Crowley—had also dissipated quickly. He could never be absolutely sure where he stood with Halt. For every appraising stare Halt would stare right back, and not back down an inch. He rose to his mentor's challenges, and if Pritchard managed to trip him up, it only motivated Halt to prove himself worthy. Or retaliate.</p><p>"May I help you somehow?" the prince asked as Pritchard saddled Selkie for the day's job. Part of his duties as the woodkeeper was supervising tree fellings lest the lumberers cut down more trees than they were allowed. So far, they invariably tried.</p><p>It was the third time this week when Pritchard's duties dragged him away for the whole day. He doubted taking Halt along would have a good influence on the lumberers. This close to Dun Kilty, chances were he would be recognised, and that would be chaos.</p><p>But apprentices had other uses as well. "Actually, yes. There's some housework to be done."</p><p>"Housework."</p><p>"I'm starting to suspect I've developed a stutter. Must have something to do with Your Highness's imposing presence."</p><p>"I suspect worse mental conditions," Halt retorted, already hardened to this sort of taunting. "Did you just suggest I do the housework?"</p><p>"This might be a shock, but lowly peasant cabins don't sweep themselves. Nor do the pots scrub themselves, for that matter. I'm not telling you where wood comes from, this would be too much to handle at once."</p><p>"This can't be," Halt said without a hint of surprised inflection. "The house is always so clean. And so are the pots, for that matter."</p><p>Pritchard shot him a glare. "Guess what, I'm about to teach you this black magic. You wanted to help, didn't you?" </p><p>He dismounted and started listing instructions before Halt could think of a way out. </p><p>Leaving a prince with scrubbing the pots when Pritchard wasn't present to supervise might have catastrophic results (both for the pots and the prince), but if he gave ground now, Halt would never back himself into this corner again. The cursed boy learned too quickly sometimes.</p><p>"Pots are in the kitchen. Water and sand in the river, you remember where the river is? The pots have to be scrubbed clean with the sand and washed with water twice. This here is a broom…"</p><p>"I know." Halt rolled his eyes. "And I'm capable of finding the floor myself, thank you."</p><p>Pritchard exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, then nodded. "I expect to find the cabin perfectly clean in the evening."</p><p>The prince looked at him impassively. "It shall be done."</p><p>Pritchard had a bad feeling about this, but he ignored it, mounting quickly and spurring Selkie on to meet the lumberers on time.</p><p>He shouldn't have ignored it.</p><p>When Pritchard and Selkie returned late in the evening, exhausted and exasperated and wet from the midday rain, the last thing he wished for were more people to deal with. Yet more people was what he found. Distinctly more people than he would ever expect to find busing around his humble cabin.</p><p>Selkie pulled up of her own volition and turned her head back to look at Pritchard. He looked down at her with equal bewilderment, and dismounted with his bow in hand, leaving her to follow.</p><p>"Ho, Woodkeeper! Right on time!" an unknown man called from the roof. Another stood on a ladder, passing to him fresh shingles and nails from the final accomplice on the ground, who waved at the ranger. "Almost done!"</p><p>Dumbfounded, Pritchard almost collided with another servant, carrying a stack of pots and pans. A few weren't even from his set as far as he could tell, all polished so perfectly he could see his face in them. He had a markedly stupid expression on it.</p><p>The stable had been swept clean and strewn with fresh hay, its ceiling reinforced with new props. Selkie nudged one with her snout, obviously curious. There was fresh water in her trough, so Pritchard only removed the bridle and the saddle and promised to tend to her as soon as he sorted out what in all Skandian hells was going on.</p><p>Not that he didn't have an idea.</p><p>In the meantime, the carpenter had gotten off the roof and was now helping his two colleagues carry the ladder back towards the castle. "If it leaks anymore, it's the devil himself doing!" the one who had greeted him called.</p><p>Pritchard managed a thank-you, watching as a plump woman carried a pile of fluffy sheepskin rugs into the cabin, passing a girl with a broom in the door. They both exited a moment later, and bowed in the direction of the verandah at the other side of the cabin before following after the carpenters.</p><p>Well, that narrowed his search down.</p><p>Pritchard did indeed find Halt on the verandah. The prince sat in a canvas chair, drinking a late-evening coffee, his cowl up against the cold, his booted feet resting on the wooden railing. A jar of honey stood at the coffee table to his side—another new addition to the cabin's humble furniture. </p><p>Halt nodded to acknowledge his presence, and, to Pritchard's heartfelt horror, took a spoonful of the honey and put it into his coffee. Then—worse—he actually drank that. </p><p>Pritchard shook the distaste off. Why was spoiling coffee troubling him more than an army of servants in his home?</p><p>"And here I intended to teach you humility," he tried for a joke, approaching his apprentice.</p><p>"And here I assumed you wanted your cabin clean." Halt took another sip of his no doubt awfully sweet coffee. "I will do the housework personally tomorrow, if you insist."</p><p>Pritchard huffed a half-laugh. "Looks like there'll be precious little housework left for tomorrow."</p><p>"That's rather the point."</p><p>"Apprentices." The ranger shook his head, watching the last servant trot back towards the castle. "What made me think it was a good idea?"</p>
<hr/><p>Despite his duties preventing him from training daily, Halt's knife work improved at an impressive pace. He had good reflexes, even if his technique still needed practice. </p><p>"Elbow down," Pritchard reminded him. Halt corrected his position and threw. The knife spun in the air, hitting the centre of the wooden target with a satisfying thack. "Good," Pritchard praised. "But too slow. Again!" </p><p>The boy grunted and retrieved the knife.</p><p>Most of Pritchard's colleagues in Araluen found man-made targets to be a waste of time, but Pritchard had a fondness for them. Throwing at random trees was good for practice, but the blades grew dull quickly and required constant whetting.</p><p>Halt, to the contrary, was clearly not a fan of targets.</p><p>"Elbow!" Pritchard called at the last second, and Halt overcorrected, trying to save the throw. </p><p><em>Thump</em>, the knife buried itself in the wood again. Except this time it was the thick piece of wood it was not supposed to ever bury itself in.</p><p>A spell of awkward silence settled over the clearing, both rangers—the mentor and the apprentice—staring at the errant knife lodged handle-deep into the beam of the target stand.</p><p>"I believe you've already learnt that lesson," Pritchard eventually commented.</p><p>Halt lifted his eyes to the sky, but said nothing. </p>
<hr/><p>Soon winter was upon Dun Kilty, which meant less rain but more intense cold. On days when Halt could escape his Crown Prince duties, Pritchard introduced him to principles of unseen movement and double knife defence. And, to his profound surprise, cooking.</p><p>"Do they starve you at the castle?" Pritchard asked once, watching Halt wolf down his breakfast. </p><p>He'd offered to share as a second thought, since he still sometimes cooked for two if he was distracted. He had never seen Halt nod so eagerly before.</p><p>"Not intentionally," the prince replied between bites. "But I have a profound distaste for some of their spices." </p><p>"Spices?" Pritchard asked, to which Halt simply nodded. "For example?" </p><p>"Arsenic."</p><p>"Halt." His apprentice looked up, but as no questions followed, he returned to his scrambled eggs. "Care to elaborate?" </p><p>"No."</p><p>The Ranger groaned in exasperation. This boy would be the end of him.</p><p>But the groan, thankfully, prompted an explanation. "It happened only once, perhaps because I don't care to repeat the experience. If I can't eat with my parents, I don't." He shrugged. "I have a reputation of a paranoiac to uphold." </p><p>Pritchard hid his face in his hands. It wasn't that he didn't believe Halt. He did, even if Halt doubted it. He just didn't know what to do. In any other case he would have brought this straight to the authorities as domestic abuse, and made sure the culprits were punished and Halt taken to a safe home. </p><p>But Halt was himself above any authorities Pritchard the Woodkeeper could appeal to.</p><p>"I will be preparing meals for us both from now on," he decided. "And I could teach you to make your own for when I'm away. It's a useful skill to have anyway."</p><p>"You want <em> me </em> to cook?" Halt repeated, incredulous. His overly serious facade slipped at such moments of surprise, when he was too baffled to try to look threatening.</p><p>Pritchard smiled. "What about it?" </p><p>"They can poison me at the castle just fine…" </p><p>But he helped with the dinner that afternoon, and was soon good enough in the kitchen that Pritchard started trusting him with cooking for them both.</p><p>Day by day, Halt was becoming more of what he could never be. The Crown Prince of Clonmel—and an apprentice Ranger.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You can pry long-haired emo price Halt from my cold dead hands.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cᴀᴍᴀʀᴀᴅᴇʀɪᴇ</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Halt would chose this life if he could.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day was scorching hot.</p><p>Hand shielding the eyes from the sun, Pritchard rose in the saddle and scanned the road ahead. So much sunlight filtered through the fresh canopy over their heads that the road seemed bathed in blinding radiance. If not for the blinding part, he would have appreciated the scenery far more.</p><p>Spring had come late and gone early, giving way to oppressive heat and violent thunderstorms of summer. The season was unusually dry, but while farmers struggled, the woods seemed yet unaffected by the drought—unlike the woodkeeper. Pritchard was sweating profusely under his cloak and the layers of clothing that the cold morning had tricked him into wearing. Better accustomed to the unholy amplitudes of Hibernian weather, insects buzzed around the Ranger and his horse, adding to his misery.</p><p>Having spotted nothing of concern, Pritchard settled back into the saddle. Hard as it was to imagine any bandit would bother to ambush them in this heat, Pritchard wasn't taking any chances. Not with the Crown Prince of Clonmel under his care—even if Halt was more than capable of holding his own these days.</p><p>Pritchard glanced at his apprentice. Halt seemed hardly better off in the heat, dressed similarly. He'd drawn his bow and was aiming at the thicket by the curve of the road that Pritchard had just deemed safe, his eyes narrowed in focus. Pritchard let him be, looking out for less obvious threats.</p><p>Selkie shook her mane, letting him know what she thought of his caution and patrolling in this weather in general. <em>The heat is frying your brain</em>, she seemed to say. As usual, she was the voice of reason between the two of them.</p><p>The Ranger and his apprentice cleared the sharp turn of the road at a steady trot. When no arrows flew and no trap sprang to life, Halt breathed out audibly and relaxed his bow. Pritchard noted that he left the arrow on the string. He nodded his approval; better overly cautious than dead.</p><p>No matter what his horse thought of it, this was the time to stay alert.</p><p>Dun Kilty woods had been granted a peaceful winter and spring, doubtless in part thanks to the thirty hangmen swaying from the trees in what was once a perfect spot for a bandit camp. The stench had been unholy, but even dragging Halt to the said clearing so he could add his breakfast to the rancid mix didn't convince the Crown Prince to allow for the bandits to be buried.</p><p>Pritchard had been secretly relieved to find the bodies gone last week. And he had to hand it to Halt: leaving the bandits unburied had given them an early warning that the local criminal element was ready for a rematch. For some reason, their sort could seldom resist making a statement.</p><p>Suddenly Halt drew his bow again, aiming at a thicket at his side of the road. Trusting in his skills and judgement, Pritchard focused on the other side. Bushes and tree trunks went by, as unthreatening and uncowed by the gleaming head of his arrow as only plants could be.</p><p>They were looking for trouble, patrolling the same roads every second day without fault, but trouble, this once, wasn't eager to find them.</p><p>"It's your scowl," Pritchard told his apprentice once they had cleared the suspicious area. Halt tilted his head at him, a demand for explanation. "If I were a bandit, I'd stay away too."</p><p>Halt, predictably, scowled at him from under the hood of his cloak, the epitome of scalding disapproval. Then he caught himself on playing right into the taunt. "Sometimes I wish you were," he retorted and hastened his horse to get ahead, away from his mentor's smug grin.</p><p>At least he was responding to taunting, which constituted a good day by recent standards. Pritchard urged Selkie to catch up. The King of Clonmel was ailing of late, hence more and more duties were left to pile upon his heir. Halt bore it without complaining, but Pritchard could tell he was tired.</p><p>"This is pointless," Halt said once Pritchard drew level. He faced away. "I should be with the Council."</p><p>"I'm sure the Council can manage the kingdom for a while without you looming over their heads," Pritchard disagreed. "Actually, I imagine they'll find it easier."</p><p>"Indeed," Halt replied evenly. "Monarchies fall when they let their councils realise that."</p><p>Pritchard eyed him. Was that a jab at the situation in Araluen? Probably not, or Halt had let it slip unintentionally. He knew how his mentor felt about his lost homeland. He was brusque and grumpy at times, yes, but never cruel just for the sake of it.</p><p>Frankly, the more time Pritchard spent around the local court, the more surprised he was that Halt had turned out to be such a decent and dutiful young man. No merit of his parents or brother in that for sure.</p><p>Speaking of his brother. "Halt," Pritchard started, "I've been thinking..." He paused, uncertain whether he was welcome to comment, let alone advise.</p><p>Halt exploited his hesitation mercilessly. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't tell anyone. That would start a riot."</p><p>Pritchard gave him a hurt look and decided to keep his idea to himself. And so they rode for a while, stewing in the heat and the awkward silence that had fallen.</p><p>"Well, what have you been thinking?" Halt finally asked.</p><p>Pritchard needed a moment to remember, having moved onto more remediable problems. "It's just an idea," he began cautiously, "but perhaps you could get your brother involved. Since he's so eager to rule, he could take some of the burden off your shoulders."</p><p>"Ferris? Helping me?" Halt shook his head. "Forget it."</p><p>"Who said we need to tell him? He sounds like a child. Perhaps you could simply dangle the tempting royal responsibility before him and conveniently disappear on a patrol the next day."</p><p>That, Halt seemed to consider. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards—not really a smile, but Halt's equivalent of one.</p><p>Then a problem occurred to Pritchard. "That would let him hoard the credit, though."</p><p>"I don't care," Halt said. "He can have it. The problem is, the blame remains mine if he ruins something, and knowing Ferris, he will. I doubt the Council would try to limit the damage for my sake."</p><p>Pritchard shook his head resignedly. He could stomach an occasional reminder of the extent of Halt's paranoia, but even more worrying was Pritchard's own growing certainty that it wasn't entirely unfounded.</p><p>"Ferris has never taken a political action like that before," he mused aloud. "He would need to be subtle to frame you. Do you think he's that resourceful?"</p><p>Halt didn't reply immediately. The half-smile was gone by the time he did, replaced by a distant look and an oddly sad expression. "For the sake of this kingdom," he said quietly, "he had better be."</p><hr/><p>They had fallen back into companionable silence, broken only to comment on suspicious tracks and other notable observations—or, in Pritchard's case, to complain about the frustrating lack of thereof. Halt let him prattle, though except for an occasional grunt, he didn't participate in the conversation.</p><p>As midday neared, the sun creeping up the sky, even the tree crowns above were no longer offering solace. Both men and their horses were positively fed up with the heat. When Halt grumbled that he would rather be back in the castle, Pritchard decided to take action before the sun fried their brains completely.</p><p>The next crossroads offered the perfect opportunity. "Halt, can you swim?" he asked when the fork came into view.</p><p>The prince replied in a carefully neutral tone, "Of course I can."</p><p>Again, Pritchard thought. An amused smile played on his lips. Halt rarely lied or concealed the truth, but when he did, it was in this exact fashion, to save face when it didn't even need saving.</p><p>But why admit to possibly losing the fletching jig if he could commission a new one from the castle's smithy and spare himself the embarrassment? Well, now Pritchard had two fletching jigs and a distinct hunch that Halt couldn't swim after all.</p><p>Nevertheless, he nudged his horse so that she turned into the left branch of the road, which led to the lake and along its shore to the villages on the other side.</p><p>They slowed down to a walk to spare the horses, so it took another half an hour until the brightly sparkling surface of the lake showed through the trees. Selkie whinnied happily. She adored water, all the more so in such weather.</p><p>Halt's horse, a grey mare he'd bought in replacement for his black monstrosity of a warhorse, was tired beyond reacting, her head hanging low. Halt had a similar expression, but he dismounted and led her by the reins the rest of the way.</p><p>The lake lay in a shallow valley, circular and about a kilometer wide in diameter. Rushes grew in great abundance along the shores, masking its exact shape. A prosperous little village sat at its opposite shore, its modest docks packed with boats as the fishermen waited out the midday heat.</p><p>Once the woods had stretched right up to the waterline, but regular logging and the popularity of the lake as a picnic spot left only a few willows to offer shade to a weary traveller. The Ranger and his apprentice made camp under the closest tree, wanting nothing but to get off the sun immediately. The willow stood all lonely by the shore, soaking its stooping branches in the water; they formed a natural alcove where the men could deposit some of the gear out of sight from the road.</p><p>Especially the bows were better not left in the sun. "I wouldn't leave my worst enemy in the sun today," Halt said when his mentor told him about it.</p><p>Pritchard stripped Selkie of her saddle and bridle. He didn't need a headcollar in place of the latter—no matter how much she loved playing in the water, Selkie was a Ranger's horse and would return at his bidding. He let her go with a word of encouragement.</p><p>Halt glanced at him sidelong and kept tight hold on his own mare's reins as he led her to the lake so she could drink. Alright, Pritchard had a soft spot for his horse, so what of it?</p><p>In contrast, Halt didn't like his new mount much. Or rather, not at all. The prince was still sore over having to replace his warhorse—Pritchard had to admit it was fast and nimble for its size, but it was simply too conspicuous for their patrols. And, frankly, Pritchard didn't care for Halt's assurances about the beast's amiable nature. A horse that big only needed a pinch of temper to kill. If it kicked you, you would starve rolling.</p><p>Their mounts taken care of, the men ditched all unessential pieces of clothing. Off went the cloaks, leather gauntlets, jerkins and boots. They only kept the breeches, tunics, and knives in case of emergency. Halt bound his hair up with a strip of leather. "So, what's the plan?" he asked.</p><p>"Why, lazing around and enjoying ourselves until the heat gets bearable," Pritchard told him. "I, for one, plan to go swimming. But you do you."</p><p>"And seriously?"</p><p>Pritchard looked up with a martyred expression. "Why does this boy have to be serious all the time?" he asked the willow tree. It rustled above as if trying to answer. "You can call it guarding the lake if you insist." Then, because he couldn't help himself, he added with a crooked smile, "Or I could show you how to make a fishing rod out of your bow."</p><p>It was Halt's turn to ask the willow for answers. "Why can this old man never be serious?" he sighed.</p><p>"I've actually seen someone do it once," Pritchard pointed out. "My former apprentice."</p><p>"No," Halt said, flat-out denial. He shook his head. "You're joking. Please be joking, this once."</p><p>Pritchard shrugged and lifted the curtain of willow branches to get outside. Halt gazed hesitantly at the abandoned gear before following. They had the knives, though, and Selkie stood watch. It would suffice.</p><p>Pritchard led Halt towards the most overgrown stretch of the lake bank. A long wooden pier jutted out over the water there, concealed by the tall stalks of weeds and rushes. The sun was baking their backs as they walked, fresh spring grass soft under their bare feet.</p><p>Halt was still mulling over the preposterous bow-fishing rod idea. "How could that not damage the bow?" he asked. His brow furrowed as a new question arose. "Did you really let him do that?"</p><p>"Let him?" Pritchard snorted. "You didn't <em>let</em> that one do anything; you closed your eyes and hoped whatever he came up with didn't involve you."</p><p>"Well, did it damage his bow?" Halt pressed. In his opinion, it should have. If there was any justice in nature, such tomfoolery had to be punished harshly.</p><p>"His? No," Pritchard said with a grimace. "Because that was my bow!"</p><p>Halt blinked. Once. Again. He would have done the same with his ears if he could, because he absolutely refused to have heard what he just had.</p><p>The Ranger took mercy on him and Crowley's memory and explained, "It was my old bow. I made a new one but kept grabbing it in a rush, so he decided to help." He smiled at the memory. He missed that crazy redhead, trouble as he had been.</p><p>Halt's eyebrow, meanwhile, was steadily rising up and up. "And you dare complain about me?" he asked once it could go up no further.</p><p>"How could I, Your Highness," Pritchard assured. They reached the pier and he sketched a bow at Halt, gesturing for him to go first. "After you, Your Highness."</p><p>The prince gave him an exasperated look, but made no dispute.</p><p>The wooden planks creaked under their feet. Some even bent downwards, but the construction held. Neither paid it much attention anyway. A cool wind was blowing in from the lake, like a hand stretched out with an offering of respite from the oppressive heat.</p><p>Halt strode up to the very edge of the pier. There he halted, gazing out at the sparkling expanse with that distant look again.</p><p>The lake was refreshingly calm and languid. A lone fishing boat was drifting lazily in the centre. Its paddles dangled limply from the sides, the owner's legs dangling over the rump. To the right, a pair of swans rested in the rushes, sleeping through the day just like the fortunate fisherman.</p><p>In honour of the tranquil scenery, Pritchard offered his apprentice one more chance to come clean. "Halt, you know you can be honest with me."</p><p>Halt set his jaw. "I know," he replied. How sincere it sounded. "I am."</p><p>Pritchard nodded and lay his hand on his shoulder. Then, without warning, he kicked Halt's legs from under him and pushed him into the lake.</p><p>Taken by surprise, Halt had no time to react. He fell into the water with an undignified yelp, followed by an impressive splash. The swans perked up and hissed in offence, flailing with their wings—but nowhere as dramatically as Halt was flailing his arms, trying to stay afloat. Pritchard watched him struggle, his arms folded on his chest.</p><p>Even after the initial shock, it was going poorly. So poorly Pritchard was on the verge of jumping in to help before Halt realised—at last!—that the water only reached up to his shoulders.</p><p>The prince found his footing on the muddy lakebed, panting and spitting out water. Finally he swept his hair back from his face and glared up at Pritchard.</p><p>Some glare it was.The Ranger couldn't help a chuckle. "You call that swimming?" he asked sardonically.</p><p>Half a year ago, this would have earned the Head Woodkeeper a discharge at least. Not so much later, even after Halt had decided to give Pritchard some measure of trust, it would still have been a muttered curse—or dejected acceptance and a silent week, if he was really offended.</p><p>But that boy with the temper of a wet cat had grown into a man over these winter months. Not yet a comrade of equal skill and experience, but Pritchard was already proud of him.</p><p>"Point taken," Halt admitted grudgingly. He tried to get the water off his face—a vain effort when more was dropping from his sodden sleeves and hair all the while.</p><p>Still grinning, Pritchard offered him a hand to pull him back onto the pier—careful not to be pulled down himself, because he knew Halt would even the score sooner or later. Halt took his hand, his grip strong and sure. He climbed back on and turned back towards the lake. Given the glare he directed at it, it was lucky not to have evaporated.</p><p>But it was not the lake Halt was angry at. Softly he asked, "Will you teach me?" As if he still doubted the answer.</p><hr/><p>The sun was setting, painting the surface of the lake a glossy orange. The wind had died down, but the air remained cooler by the water. Soon what had been a pleasant breeze throughout the day would turn into a persistent chill. Sprawled on the ground against the willow tree, Pritchard didn't mind much, but he imagined Halt would.</p><p>The prince stumbled out of the lake, wrenching out the water from his hair. Dripping wet, he picked up his boots without a word and returned to the pier, where he could wash the mud off his feet before putting them on.</p><p>Pritchard took mercy on him and threw him a spare tunic when he returned. Halt's own would dry eventually, the air was still heated from the day, but riding in damp clothes was no pleasure. Halt nodded his gratitude and put it on. His mood seemed to be lifting already.</p><p>The prince had spent the whole day brushing up his rusty swimming skills. He'd been pushing himself, but to a worthy end. Swimming was one of the skills people widely disregarded until they needed it—and few lived through being proven wrong.</p><p>"Enjoyed yourself?" Pritchard asked when Halt was done restoring his attire to a modicum of presentability. He merely shrugged, so Pritchard added, in his best mentoring voice, "It's called taking a day off. Good for mental health."</p><p>Halt raised an eyebrow at him. "You call that a day off?" he asked with mock disbelief, brandishing his sodden shirt before stuffing it into the sacks.</p><p>"Well, what do you call a day off?"</p><p>Halt pondered the question for a moment, tying up the sacks. Then he shrugged, admitting defeat. Pritchard covered his eyes with his hand. That boy was unbelievable sometimes.</p><p><em>Alright, enough</em>, he decided and picked himself up with a groan as his joints protested. He readied the horses while Halt packed the remains of their camp. The disk of the sun was already halfway below the horizon when they left the shade of the willow tree, leading their horses up to the road.</p><p>Suddenly Selkie jerked her head up and turned back towards the lake. Pritchard didn't hold her—Ranger horses didn't throw meaningless tantrums. Indeed, Selkie's nostrils flared, her ears pricking up warily. Not yet a warning, but close enough.</p><p>"What is it, girl?" Pritchard asked, following her line of sight. He scanned the horizon, squinting. "Halt," he asked grimly, "do you see what I see?"</p><p>Halt nodded, his frown deepening. "Smoke."</p><hr/><p>They set off at a gallop, taking the road along the shore. The cloud of smoke rising above the village was growing at a terrifying pace. Dry from the prolonging drought, the straw roofs and wooden buildings would be catching on fire immediately. In this weather a single spark could mean the demise of the whole village.</p><p>They rode in through the main gate. Its wings were thrown wide open, the danger inside deemed worse than anything that could come from the woods. But so far only a few people decided to carry their possessions out, so the fire couldn't have spread far. There was still hope.</p><p>The Ranger and his apprentice raced through the narrow streets, following the smoke and densening crowds of onlookers. Halt's mare was dancing, scared and restless, ignoring his attempts to keep her short. Pritchard averted his eyes with a heavy conscience. He would have to trust his apprentice to handle himself.</p><p>The burning building turned out to be the tavern, the heart and soul of the village. Its wooden roof was already ablaze and hungry flames were devouring the outer walls, coaxing black smoke out of the tavern's broken windows. Even though the construction had yet to collapse, at this point anyone could see clearly that it would.</p><p>The fire was but the tiny portion of the chaos. Amid the shouting and panic and smoke, the villagers fought the fire splashing water out of buckets carried from the well or the lake. Against a blaze so strong that Pritchard could feel it scorching his skin from meters away, it was but a sprinkle.</p><p>The Ranger assessed the situation within seconds. The tavern was lost, but in a stroke of luck, the adjacent buildings stood at some distance and had not yet caught on for good. With organised effort, they could stop the fire from spreading. Emphasis on organised. "You there!" he halted the nearest villager. "Who's in command here?"</p><p>"In command, sir?" the man repeated and shied away, clutching his bucket. "The tavern is burning!"</p><p>"Imagine that I can see." He could also see that there was no getting more out of that man. Pritchard took a deep breath and shouted over the chaos and the roar of the fire, "Everyone, form a line to the lake! Pass buckets, pots, whatever—fast! You—" he pointed at another onlooker, "—get that bucket! To the line, now!"</p><p>No one recognised a Ranger in Hybernia, but a confident mounted man carried a degree of authority wherever he went. One by one, sometimes dragging them by the collars, he forced the onlookers and confused firefighters into the line. He only had to recruit a handful before the rest followed suit. "Second line at the other end, now!"</p><p>The buckets started arriving, filled with water from the lake. The Ranger directed them to adjacent buildings, though it was bloody hard to tell which to prioritise in the dimming daylight and the smoke. Pritchard picked out one purposeful man and sent him to the other side of the street to assess the situation there and direct as he saw fit. Ideally all buildings in the vicinity of the tavern should be generously splashed with water, but they only had so many helpers and buckets.</p><p>One man, the barkeep judging by his attire, accosted him to argue. "My lord, the tavern—"</p><p>"—is lost!" Pritchard cut him off. "Other buildings first or the whole village will burn!"</p><p>The man gaped at him in disbelief, eyes and mouth wide, then spat under Selkie's hooves, threw his bucket to the ground and stomped off, brushing ash and tears over his face. Luckily for the village, no others followed. The villagers around were organising themselves now, passing water and helping the injured away from the fire. His work as a leader was done.</p><p>Pritchard dismounted, pulled out a piece of cloth from the sacks, dampened it with water from the waterskin and tied it around his mouth and nose. There was little he could do to protect Selkie from the smoke so he sent her back and joined the front lines.</p><p>The blaze was baking the bare skin on his hands, the smoke forcing tears from his eyes and a cough from his chest despite the shawl. It was hard work, but he took place at the end of the line and kept hurling water on the fire until his arms and back hurt from the exertion.</p><p>He need not have joined. One old man didn't make that much of a difference after all. But Pritchard had figured out long ago that if every man thought so, if every man only ever cared about his own problems, nothing would get done. And so he worked, fire burning in his muscles, fire burning ahead, smoke in his eyes. Refusing to be that man who stood aside, doing what needed to be done.</p><p>"Pritchard!" Halt yelled suddenly over the din. "Your left!" His bow came up in a blink of an eye and the string sang, the arrow passing Pritchard with a vicious hiss.</p><p>He whipped around and saw where it had struck: a man he hadn't noticed next to him let out a dull grunt, swaying on his feet. The arrow protruded vulgarly from his sternum. His rough, scarred face turned blank and he fell over, revealing the axe he'd been aiming at the Ranger. It slipped from his limp fingers with a dull thud, lost in the ruckus. Villagers who saw started screaming incoherently.</p><p>Pritchard flipped his saxe knife out of its scabbard. He knew immediately that Halt had made the right call. That man had been no local, and no ordinary traveller either.</p><p>They had been seeking trouble for days. No wonder trouble had found them at last.</p><p>Suddenly, with a groan of tortured wood, the tavern gave in and collapsed in on itself. The roof, long strained by the fire, fell down in a fountain of sparks and a suffocating outburst of black smoke. Shouts and coughs and cries erupted all around.</p><p>As was its wont, trouble had picked the worst possible time to pounce.</p><hr/><p>Halt was aiming at ghosts in the smoke, frustrated by his helplessness. He held the bow drawn, unable to shoot for fear of hitting an innocent. But neither could he retreat—not alone.</p><p>Clouds of smoke had burst from the collapsed tavern, covering the street with a sooty dark shroud. There was no wind to chase it away, no sunlight left to shine through. The blaze from the fire only confused his eyes further, refracting on the smoke. Almost immediately, the line of volunteer firefighters disintegrated, adding to the chaos. People were running to and fro, coughing, yelling and bumping into one another.</p><p>His cursed horse danced under him again, shying away from the stampede. Halt stilled her with a determined command, but lowered his bow. The beat of his heart counted off chaos-filled seconds, waiting for Pritchard to emerge from the smoke. For once he was more concerned about someone's safety more than his own—and of course he had to pay for it.</p><p>His horse reared under him suddenly, which probably saved his life. The man who had been reaching for Halt's leg jumped back—but the other, that one holding a sword, did not.</p><p>There was no time for thinking. Halt flung himself from the saddle, rolling over to absorb the impact. He picked up his bow that he'd let go of in the fall and ran towards where he had last seen Pritchard, into the cloud of smoke.</p><p>His poor panicked horse bought him mere seconds. He felt the thugs follow more than he could hear. The stench of burning wood assailed his senses, easily getting through the cloth wrapped around his mouth. His eyes started stinging instantly. It got worse the closer he drew to the tavern. Still running, he flipped both knives free of their scabbards. Time to test Pritchard's dual style against an actual sword.</p><p>He swerved to the side. The thug at his heels saw the movement and swept blindly with his sword. It was a clumsy, miscalculated sweep. Halt sidestepped it easily. Taking the opening, he sliced deep at the back of the man's knee. Momentum carried him forward, away from the scream of the wounded man... And from his charging comrade.</p><p>The second thug didn't stumble over his fallen companion as intended. He pivoted smoothly and slashed after Halt with his broad-edge axe. Halt barely stumbled away in time, cursing under his breath. Double-knife defence had its uses, but it was no good trying to deflect an axe. His knives were as good as toothpicks in comparison.</p><p>His opponent let out a furious roar and charged, giving him no time to regain composure. Halt leaped away again. He could think of nothing better to do when his opponent held every asset, wielding his axe with ease that bespoke experience in felling more than trees. The thug was better rested too.</p><p>But for all his advantages, one thing he lacked. In his defense, so did Halt. Perhaps it was the smoke in his eyes that prevented him from noticing Pritchard until the Ranger tripped the man forward, slammed his elbow in his gut and finished it off with a ruthless clout to the head.</p><p>Or perhaps it was just Pritchard being Pritchard, quick, timely and efficient. Infallible. Halt banished the wave of relief that threatened to overwhelm him. What was there to warrant relief? The horseshit they were in was no less deep for the fact they were in it together. Even if his mentor's very presence made it feel so.</p><p>Pritchard regarded the knocked-out thug with moderate curiosity. The heavy hilt of the saxe knife in his palm had guaranteed the thug a long, long sleep. Maybe eternal.</p><p>The Ranger looked up and beckoned for his apprentice, as if surprised he even had to. Admonished, Halt forced his stunned legs to move and they fell into fighting positions back to back, knives at the ready. Smoke was starting to get to them both, the heat from the fire worse than the heat of the late day.</p><p>"Are there more?" Pritchard asked. His composure was easy to mimic, if harder to internalise.</p><p>"Likely," Halt replied in tone. "What do we do?" They needed a plan. The smoke cloud from the collapse was thinning already; its precarious cover would soon be gone. "The alleys?"</p><p>Two narrow passages separated the tavern from its neighbours. These gaps in the otherwise tight wooden infrastructure had been the sole reason why the fire didn't spread immediately. But Pritchard shook his head. "Burning hellholes by now."</p><p>Suddenly the Ranger tensed. It was all warning Halt got before the press of his back against Halt's disappeared as he dove forward. A startled cry of pain rang, silenced swiftly but not swiftly enough. Halt fixed his grip on the knives. Pritchard seldom missed. Which meant he betrayed their position by purpose. "We're about to have company!" he warned in the heartbeat before the bandits rushed in to prove him right.</p><p>The following minutes blended together in the chaos of battle and smoke. Steel rang on steel, shouts and cries of pain and rage filled the air. In the narrow street, the fire guarding their flank, the numbers didn't count for much. But outnumbered they were, surrounded and cut off from escape.</p><p>There was a sort of grim satisfaction to be found in a close-quarters fight, one Halt had never known before. He had always been told that he was too slight of build to be a knight, that the bow was his best chance at proving useful in a battle—and truly, it was. But it was no longer his only weapon.</p><p>He caught a sword's strike on the crossed blades of his knives, pushed it off-course. The bandit lost his balance, stumbling forward with a cry. Halt dashed in, drove his blade home like he drove this new thought into his mind: <em>Not useless. Not defenceless. No more.</em></p><p>And behind him fought the man who gave him this. This, and so much more. Halt risked a glance over his shoulder. Pritchard was facing off against two—or rather, two bandits were facing off against Pritchard, clearly outmatched.</p><p>"Weeks of searching for them in the woods and neither of us thought to check the taverns?" Halt shouted at his mentor. "We deserved that!"</p><p>"Speak for yourself," came the reply, followed by a clash of steel.</p><p>Halt grinned under his scarf and focused on his side. One clumsy bandit forgot to invest in a sword and had thus been forced to come close with his knife. The young Ranger took him out with a kick to the kneecap, already ducking under the swing from another, better equipped opponent.</p><p>"You know," he continued, undeterred, "I've always assumed I would at least have the privilege to die in an ambush set up for me." He finished off the next bandit and withdrew immediately, ready to engage anyone else who would try to take Pritchard from the rear. "Not as some bonus for getting you. This is humiliating."</p><p>While he obviously couldn't see it, Halt simply knew Pritchard rolled his eyes. "The real humiliation is if their sort gets you!" he shouted back.</p><p>Said humiliation flashed just before Halt's eyes, reflecting in the blade of an axe, the same one he had faced before. His current opponent had pilfered it from the body of his fallen comrade, rightly assuming it would give him the advantage. If Halt thought the axe's previous owner wielded it well, this man seemed born to it. A thick vertical scar cut through the corner of his mouth, one of the many marks of his trade; it twisted his expression into a permanent sneer.</p><p>Though Halt didn't know it, the scarred bandit was a survivor of Pritchard's autumn purge. In its crooked way, luck had spared him when he'd drawn the short straw to stand watch by the road on the evening Pritchard executed his plan. Luck was a fickle mistress; she had taken his favourite tavern, but gave him a shot at his most hated enemy in exchange.</p><p>The rest of the band withdrew. Some even backed away, but enough stayed to create a sense of danger. Winning this duel wouldn't be the end of it, if he even could win, which was doubtful. Halt grit his teeth; he was trapped. Dodge to the side and he would expose Pritchard. Charge forward? Madness.</p><p>Luckily for Halt, his mentor remained watchful. Pritchard noted the change in his opponents, a sudden reluctance, and thought to check behind his back. One glance and he was already moving. Because what other choice did he have, seeing Halt poised to attack an axeman? The smaller knife flew from his hand before his mind even caught up.</p><p>It could have ended badly, but the villagers chose this exact moment to come to their rescue. Wielding pitchforks, shovels and scythes, they charged with a battle cry. Took them long enough.</p><p>The remaining bandits quickly surrendered or took to their heels, choosing the unknown of the other end of the street over certain capture. Either way, the skirmish was over. Pritchard breathed a sigh of relief. A Ranger was not to be underestimated with just the saxe, but it made effective defence much harder.</p><p>Halt stood over the fallen axeman, staring numbly at Pritchard's throwing knife lodged in the man's eye socket. He should have thought of this himself. His mentor shouldn't have had to endanger himself to save Halt from his short-sightedness.</p><p>Of course, Pritchard didn't think so. "You did well," he said quietly, for his apprentice's ears only. "It is not a shame to need help, nor to ask for it. Your pride is never worth defending with your life, Halt. Never."</p><p>Halt nodded, accepting the words even if he didn't understand. Pritchard was like that. He was merciless in his teasing, true as dawn, and yet. . . At the end of the day, he forgave Halt for every shortcoming, every mistake. His patience didn't run dry this time either. Maybe, Halt dared hope, it never would.</p><p>Pritchard clasped his shoulder assuredly and swaggered off to greet the villagers.</p><p>Or maybe someone deserved the dressing-down more tonight.</p><p>"How was the trip?" Pritchard glared, hands on his hips. "Why the dumb faces, I'm sure you must have taken one on the way! My grandmother could have been here sooner, and she has her grave to crawl out of!"</p><p>Why, and a strip of sea to cross. Halt hid his smile, amused despite himself. Pritchard went on with the scolding: "Why can't I see the line with buckets? Move, now! Fights may end themselves but that fire's not going to be so kind!"</p><p>The villagers scattered, anxious to obey. Forget kings on their high thrones; this was the truest authority a man could command. Born not out of fear or wealth or power, but out of the unerring conviction that the man you followed was right. Pritchard knew it too.</p><p>How Halt wished this could be the life ahead of him. Serving, and yet free. Free to pick your battles, free to talk back to knights and princes, free to disappear for days and yet be welcome to return. Free in the sense no other man he knew was.</p><p>How he wished he could choose this. How—in the depths of his heart that no one would ever see—he wished Pritchard could have been his father instead. The Ranger already cared more than Halt's own father ever did.</p><p>Halt wiped his knives clean and slid them back into their scabbards. His hood had slipped down in the fight; he pulled it back on before anyone could see his face.</p><p>In the hood's shadow, he could live this dream a while longer. In its shadow he could mourn it, and no one would see his tears.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>Bonus scene</em>
</p><hr/><p>"You know you can't keep threatening the countryfolk every time they annoy you."</p><p>Two men rode through the night, the sky clear above them. The moon was thin, yielding little light, and their cloaks blended into the shadows even better than usual, splattered with soot and grime. Few indeed could see one of those two creeping upon them, even if tonight they could smell the blood and ash on them from a mile away.</p><p>The younger of the men turned to his mentor slowly. "I assure you, I have every right."</p><p>"I meant 'can’t' as 'It won’t get you far.'" Pritchard lifted his eyes to the sky. "And before you ask, what makes me <em>know</em> this is experience."</p><p>"Maybe you need more practice."</p><p>Pritchard gave vent to a long-suffering sigh. Even Halt, who usually hid his amusement behind a practised deadpan mask, smiled slightly. He was tired too.</p><p>The villagers had sent them away with a profusion of thanks and equally as many complaints. The latter mostly about the surviving members of the band, who had been trussed up and left to await proper arrest under the watchful eye of the eager blacksmith and his hammer.</p><p>The discontent arose from the fact that the bandits had been paying for their beer in gold, which of course meant they had been beyond welcome. Whose gold it was did not concern the villagers in the slightest. There were also some recruited sons and nephews, but whose exactly, no one hastened to admit.</p><p>Halt had kept silent, hiding his disdain under the hood, even though in the darkness of the night the danger of him being recognised was minimal. And so Pritchard had been left to argue alone that yes, attacking Dun Kilty's Woodkeeper constituted a crime and no, he would not accept bribes in retribution. The villagers took their time processing the last one.</p><p>"Two gold coins, my lord?" a familiar-looking villager suggested, generously upping the previous offer by a half.</p><p>Before Pritchard could answer, a bow snapped up, the arrow sliding to full draw. "How much?" Halt asked sternly.</p><p>The man staggered away, lifting his hands up in surrender. "I—I did nothing sir, my lord, nothing!"</p><p>"Indeed. Most importantly, you did not answer my question," Halt adjusted his aim with each step backwards the man made. Pritchard considered stopping him—in foul mood as he was, Halt could actually shoot the villager. But then he remembered why the man looked familiar: that was the barkeep who had thrown a tantrum at him earlier. Pritchard backed away. Some people deserved a little scare from time to time.</p><p>"How much would you consider a fair retribution for shooting you?" Halt repeated. "Believe me, I can afford it." The barkeep shook his head mutely, staring cross-eyed at the arrow aimed steadily at his chest. "Not so eager to sell your safety?" Halt sneered. "Thought so."</p><p>"No, please! Please" The man dissolved into a puddle of tears and stammering apologies. Everyone else backed as far away from him as they could, anxious not to get caught up. "Please don't shoot! Please, I'm sorry!"</p><p>Halt, however, was not satisfied. "Aren't you forgetting something?"</p><p>The barkeep's pleas petered off. His brows drew together in confusion. "My—My lord?"</p><p>“Better." Halt lowered his bow. "Off with you."</p><p>The man obeyed that last order speedily, quick enough that some might have overlooked the dark stain spreading on his trousers. Pritchard hadn't. Judging by his disgusted expression, neither had Halt.</p><p>Morality aside, Pritchard had to admit: Halt had a knack for threatening people.</p><p>Halt cleared his throat. He nodded towards the lake at their left. "Can we at least wash off the blood?"</p><p>That was definitely a good idea. Pritchard edged Selkie up to Halt's mare as they turned towards a similar pier to the one they had stopped by during the day. Had that really been just hours ago?</p><p>The Ranger dismounted, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ankles and knees. His aging body hadn't failed him a single time during the fight, but he should have known it would charge interest. Luckily Halt was too busy binding his horse to notice his grimace.</p><p>He ignored his aching joints and muscles one more time to kneel on the pier and rub his hands clean in the water. From there he moved onto getting the soot off his face and out of his hair and beard, to moderate success.</p><p>Telltale creaking of the planks heralded Halt's approach. Coming over, the young man rested his hand on his mentor's shoulder. Pritchard looked up at him with a smile, pleasantly surprised at the display of affection. Another surprise awaited: Halt was smiling right back, a real, open smile, so unlike him.</p><p>"Thank you," he whispered. But then he shoved Pritchard into the lake.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>"This got longer than planned, and took longer than planned."</em><br/>Feel free to put this on my grave.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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